


safe haven

by Earfalas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Discussion of Theology Used as Shipping Devices, Edward is a very tired boi, Little hurt/comfort in the second chapter, M/M, Slice of Life, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, just because i can, watch me project on my boi John Irving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earfalas/pseuds/Earfalas
Summary: in a stolen moment away from the cold and dark, Edward Little and John Irving discuss the Song of Songs“This,” he says, his hand clenching the pages a little bit too hard, his knuckles whitening “this reminds me there is more to humanity than we can believe right now."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic posted on ao3 :) I'm really happy to finally share something i wrote, especially on such an amazing fandom as The Terror, so full of talented writers! :D I hope you will enjoy my one-shot, don't hesitate to leave a comment!
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful WriteOnMyWay
> 
> @graduatedpillowmonster on tumblr.hell

 

During the Sunday service, Sir John makes a reference to the Song of Songs, something about trust and devotion to God in the direst of situations. But Edward Little is too cold, his mind too numb – just like his feet and fingers to actually focus on their Expedition leader’s words, even less on the theology behind them. 

Edward feels too tired for many things these days, with their ship trapped in the unforgiving ice and their Captain deliberately trapping himself in alcohol. The men feel the already gloomy atmosphere that encircles them like the pack becoming even darker still day by day, and any ship’s crew never reacts well to a change of mood, never mind one happening while being stuck at the end of the world. This leaves the officers with the hard work of keeping the crew at an acceptable level of sanity and order, with the ever present risk of falling into mindless discipline.

It does not come naturally to Edward to berate to men, to order days of additional work loads and punishments at the first breach of rules. It brings him no joy nor sense of satisfaction. He is simply trying to hold together what little they have left of authority until Crozier comes to his senses. Hogdson and Irving, his fellow officers, aren’t thoughtless dictators either , the latter in particular. John Irving is a man of empathy, soft spoken and friendly. The mask of authority he tries to put on with the men is cracked, it doesn’t fits him and it shows. Edward is afraid that some of the most dissatisfied sailors might push through these cracks and loosen Irving’s grip on command. This is yet one more thing that settles heavily on Little’s pile of worries, and makes him feel his exhaustion even more acutely.

 _Look after the ship, look after Crozier, look after the men, look after Irving_ , and now Sir John’s words compelling him to remember his soul seep into his head and tire him even more.

Now Edward is sitting in the officers’ shared cabin, as comfortable in his oak armchair as only an exhausted man can be. He has a book open on his lap, picked as a pretext to sit down and close his eyes for a while. Even sitting in the dark, listening to the faint sounds of people settling into the last dog watch, certain that Hogdson has taken up his immediate duties, he still can’t get his mind to stop going over the seemingly endless list of all what’s left to do.

_Inspect the bridge._

_Inventory the food (canned and salted)_

_Check the sail stores and inspect the sail cloth for any dampness._

_Check the liquor store._

_Find a way to lie to the Captain about it’s rapidly decreasing level._

_Find a way to stop the Captain’s incessant drinking._

_Find a way out of here._

_Find a way to sleep despite the cold._

_Find a way to stop the cold._

_Find a way to stop feeling the cold_

_Find a way to stop-_

 His mind goes wild with all the tasks that need no thought at all, the tasks that demand _too much_ of thought and all the things he knows he shouldn’t think about. He feels on the verge of screaming, or crying, or maybe running to the deck to yell into the freezing void- anything to rid his mind of this cacophony, anything for a single second of _silence_ from his own voice.

Lieutenant Edward Little will never know which one of these options would have prevailed, as the door of the cabin opens to reveal John Irving, clumsily undoing his multiple layers of coats and scarves.

“Oh Edward I’m terribly sorry. I hope you weren’t asleep.” He says, closing the door behind him in order to not let the warmth out.

“Is something the matter, John? The beast-” Edward begins to rise, the book on his lap dropping on the ground. John places his lantern on the table and swiftly crosses the room to push him gently back on the chair with a hand on his shoulder.

“Everything is fine, Edward, please rest. You deserve it, I don’t think I have seen you sit down in an entire week.”

John picks up the book and takes a seat opposite Edward, gesturing the other officer to not mind him, an open smile on his face. Edward settles back down on and closes his eyes tiredly, mumbling his thanks.

 

When he opens them again, after what feels like a mere second, John has taken off his greatcoat and the pink is gone from his cheeks. The lamp is lit on the table and John is holding his Bible flat open with one hand while writing almost silently on a notebook. The light caresses his dark hair and the soft lines around his eyes, and seeing him so absorbed in his study makes Edward feel warm, and calm, feelings he could swear he had forgotten.

One of John’s fingers trails softly on the printed verses, alongside with his eyes, and Edward can almost see his thoughts following close; crafting links and bridges between the Scriptures and his faith, even maybe their own dire situation. He wonders if John find comfort in this, if the description of the Hebrews’ forty years wait in the desert, led by the wise yet distrusted Moses evokes him their endless wintering, if maybe Sir John stands as a shadow of the prophet.

Edward doubts it; John’s faith is not blind, nor born out of habit. He heard him talk with the steward from the Erebus back on Beechey Island: his faith is thoughtful, analysed, pondered over, and most of all heartfelt. He remember that he was sketching the landscape out of boredom. Bridgens and Irving ,standing a few feet away, had been speaking of the Christ crying for his friend Lazarus. Irving’s voice was laced with emotion as he recited the verses, and full of awe in his commentary. “The Messiah’s tears, Mr. Bridgens, for a mortal man. A dead man, a sinner like Lazarus”. Edward remember hearing the smile in the steward 's voice when he said the Christ would’ve surely cried for the three men they had to bury in this inhospitable place.

It’s the memory of this overheard conversation from a simpler time when he had still the leisure to feel bored, that pushes him to speak:

“Do you know the Song of Songs, John?”

Edward cringes the moment the words leave his lips and hope the other officer hasn’t heard what was nearly a whisper. He obviously isn’t that fortunate: John looks up from his notes and lays his eyes on him.

“The Song of Songs? Well….yes, why?”

“Sir John mentioned it during the service today.” Edward says, deciding it’s to late to back down now that he got Irving’s attention. “I wanted your opinion on it. I’m not familiar with that part of the Bible, I’m afraid.”

John lays his pencil down and turn the pages of his Bible toward the beginning; by the look of it, he was reading St John’s Apocalypse. Edward doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“So...the Song of Songs was composed by Solomon. It a poem, a dialogue of a sort, between a lover and their beloved.” John says in his soft voice, his caressing the pages to crease the back of his Bible, already loosened by use and time. A small smile plays on his chapped lips, that Edward can only describe as mischievous.

“Now, most scholars, and certainly Sir John, would tell you it’s a metaphor for Christ and the Church, or God and the soul of the believer; that’s the accepted interpretation.”

Edward finds himself smiling too.

“But what would _you_ tell me, Lieutenant Irving?”

“Well...” John licks his lips, and look sideways, in thought.“I’d say it’s a poem about love. About two young lovers who cannot wait to be reunited. I’d say it’s a poem that deserves its place in the Scriptures because it describes the depth of human emotion, the deepest feeling of love, of human love; it’s a song praising the fact that God’s creation is not all mind and soul, it’s flesh and blood. It’s bodies that can reach and touch”

Edward listen with his mouth slightly agape, his heart beating in a way he quite forgot. The words barely register in his mind but echoes directly in what feels like his very soul. It’s the polar opposite of what he felt during Sir John’s sermon earlier that day; Edward is is drowned in warmth and John’s voice is the source of it, both ocean and anchor.

At this moment he realizes that John’s faith is nothing like the stifling and overly confident belief of Sir John, that it is far from Crozier’s makeshift sermons from his fabled “book of Leviathan”, it doesn’t look anything like Edward’s childhood memory of mandatory catechism. He knows for certain that John battles with his faith like one argues with a loved one, with a sibling; you can’t entirely leave them, or cut them from your life for the separation would destroy both sides. John mends his faith, patches it up through every crisis. The entire journey ought to have taken a toll on it, but as the winter lasts and the sun disappears John’s faith burns like a valiant amber.

 

“ _In the hiding places of the mountainside_

_Let me see your face_

_Let me hear your voice_

_For your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely”_

 Edward exhales a ragged breath. He hadn’t expected the actual words to ring this simple, this close to home. It reminds him of children’s songs the rhythm and rhymes of which you repeat without getting the meaning. Of teenage poetry fighting with words to write down emotions to raw to express. Of the inner monologues of adulthood, those litanies of words you won’t ever voice for fear of seeing them fly unheard. It reminds him of all those things, and they seems so very far away in this instant, so far both in time and space. The English countryside of his childhood sounds like a dream to his own mind, just like the warmth, and the memories of experimental kisses exchanged, deep in bushes with giggling girls and very serious boys.

But then again, thinks Edward, King Solomon was very far from the green English meadows, and still sang those feelings to reality. And John Irving, lost as much as him in the dark and cold, managed to bring these same feelings back through his soft voice and softer eyes.

Edward is as much overwhelmed as he was before John entered the cabin, only this time with awe, gratitude – and longing.

“It’s beautiful.” He simply says, not trusting his voice.

John skips some pages, nodding, unaware of the whirlpool raging inside the other man.

“One often forgets this about the Bible. Yes, it is the Holy Scriptures, but it was written by men with beating hearts. Poets. Fathers, brothers. Lovers.”

 “ _Behold, you are beautiful, my love_

_Behold, you are beautiful_

_Your eyes are doves”_

 John eyes elude Edward like these very birds, then settle on the frost-covered windows, staring at nothing.

“This,” he says, his hand clenching the pages a little bit too hard, his knuckles whitening “this reminds me there is more to humanity than we can believe right now. More than anger and distrust, more than barking orders and keeping rank and lashing. It reminds me that man is capable of beauty, of friendship, of….of love.”

John finally looks up as Edward covers his tense hand with his own. His eyes are dark and shining with drops of barely contained tears, and Edward understands that right behind them lay the same maelstrom of worry and shards of light.

“John…would you read it to me? From the beginning?”

His hand still covering John’s, Edward listens, and let each word mend his heart into hoping again.

 

“ _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth;_

_for your love is better than wine.”_

 


	2. tidal wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a shift to John's pov in the aftermath of the first chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write a sequel because I can't let go of my bois and they need all the love they can get.  
> A thousands thanks to WriteOnMyWay for being an awesome beta once again! ❤️❤️ I couldn't have done it without you  
> Enjoy!

As it turns out, discussing one’s faith and reading the Holy Bible late into the night with one’s fellow officer  does not only inspire camaraderie and brotherly love. As it is, John Irving lays in his bunk in the hours they call night in the long Arctic winter, trying not to act like an enamoured school boy upon receiving his first love letter.  
No matter how hard he tries though, he can’t keep his mind off the phantom warmth on his left hand, the one Edward held for so long, as if he forgot how intimate the gesture was, or maybe as if he knew and didn’t care. Had it been any other crew member, John would have reacted differently: that night was a moment a comfort, of peace, and the contact was welcome. He would have gladly received it and given it back to anyone without any improper thoughts.  
But it was Edward Little. The strong, loyal, experienced, second-in-command of HMS Terror. A man whose competence is only equal to his kindness, and with whom John Irving is desperately and resolutely in love with. He isn’t afraid to admit it, to himself at least.  
He remembers telling Edward about his reflexions on the Song Of Songs and is still amazed at his own composure - saying without blushing, without stuttering that the poem is a prayer by humanity to humanity? A celebration of earthly creation? a celebration of _carnal love_? This single conversation had him spill all his feverish youthful thinking, the fruit of all the times he kneeled in an empty chapel to beg for forgiveness, to beg for understanding - how can the creation can be perfect if it is riddled with sin? With what _man_ calls sin? Those days of anxious confusion are well behind him, but John is still surprised by the serenity he showed that night, sharing those thoughts for the first time out loud. And the way Edward had reacted - his breath turning short. John’s mind could only wonder  how he could make him react the same way, with his lips instead of his words.

 

  
Which leads his thoughts to the bigger problem, this being their situation : if John is serene with his affections and heart's desires, the Navy is not. Acting on these feelings, acting in any unconsidered way is a step in the direction of chaos - and it is his role as an officer to prevent chaos, and therefore he has no right to bend those rules. Not in the ever-so-slowly leaning toward disaster microcosm that is a ship. He has always stood by this line of thinking, learnt to keep the satisfaction of his urges far from the sea and ship, and kept other willing officers away with Bible quotes that never failed to dampen the mood.  
Yet the moment he shook hands with Lieutenant Little in Greenhithe, standing in full dress uniform beside Captain Crozier – John Irving knew somewhere in a secret part of his heart that he was done for.  
Years of close quarters only confirmed his intuitions, and every time Edward took the time to ask about a sailor’s well-being, always calling them by their Christian names, every time he forced his fellow officers to get some rest while he stood on his feet, every time he looked at John with his tired smile over a cup of tea – John felt another piece of his soul sing: _he’s the one_ .

 

  
It was a delicious exhilaration while they were still at sea, he could picture it: they were going to find the Passage in a year’s time, cross the Pacific and come home in triumph. Once in England, free from the forced closeness and the impossibility of intimacy, they would have been able to discover each other anew. John would have invited Edward to his late uncle’s cottage, far from the noisy and overcrowded London, and together in the sunny countryside something would have bloomed. Something beautiful, perfect, too good for words, and they would have found love under the blue sky and the leaves of the young oak tree John planted there with his mother when he was five.  
But now, with both ships trapped in the pack, the beast in the fog, and strong seamen falling on the ice never to get up again , John starts to doubt that such an ending is possible for them. He tries to hope , but with the lack of sun perhaps, his daydreams turn a darker hue. He’s always afraid now, when Edward takes watch, that maybe the first thing John will see when he goes up the ladder is his bloodied and frozen body. Every time they need to cross over to the Erebus, he no longer sees a straight line to the other ship only an unforgiving labyrinth where each ridge hides another way for his love to die. He thinks of scurvy, of frostbite, of the madness that seizes isolated men. He can barely find the strength to focus on praying, to release these worries and place them into God’s hands instead. He knows that it would be wiser, that it would help him to put his duties first, that it’s the only way he can actually help Edward – but a lover’s heart was never wise. John Irving, tossing and turning in his sheets, experiences in his very soul what he read once with half-asleep eyes back on the hard school benches, in leather bound works of Greek scholars – the never-ending fight between Eros and Thanatos, Desire and Death. He understands now, for his love blossoms under the threat of his lover’s death. He hardly ponders on his own death, he doesn’t spare it a single thought – maybe he will also die on the ice, but strangely enough it doesn’t startle nor distress him. God watches, even in these wastelands, and will gather his soul if he falls. So John loses sleep over these cruel thoughts, goes about his daily duties with a head heavy with fatigue and worries, and a heavier heart.

 

  
Despite all of John’s worried imaginings, he’s nowhere near ready for the actual moment he has to witness Edward in danger, his party running back from the Erebus – with the beast at their heels. It’s still in the ridges, John thought he saw it move a mere second ago, howling loudly – or was it the wind? He stands on the deck, his hands clenching the freezing railing, his eyes trained on what he thinks is Edward’s unruly dark hair.  
He’s suddenly paralysed, fear freezing his body better than the actual cold, and the sound of yelling around him seems very far away. A gunshot coming from the ice jerks him back to reality:  
“Get the marines! _Now!_ ”, he shouts, clinging to the habit of command like a lifeline, “Armitage, Hartnell, take a rifle! – Mason, you’re with me!”  
The four men go down to meet the party while the Marines stay on board to use the ship’s height to their advantage – there’s no time to warn the Captain, they have to act quickly. They cross the ice in great strides, getting closer to the other men while keeping an eye on the beast – on the ridges encircling them like so many fangs. After what feels like an eternity, they reach them – and Irving understands why they were moving so slowly: one of the seamen, Mr. Morfin, is hurt; the two other men are carrying him as well as the bags of whatever they brought back from the Erebus.  
But John barely processes that, he's focused on the red gash that covers half of Edward’s forehead.  
“Edward, “ he starts  
“John! Thank God you’re here! Here, Mason, take Mr. Morfin! We need to be fast, that thing’s on us!”  
Irving’s suddenly stuck to the ground again, staring at the blood slowly dripping on Edward’s cheek and sideburns – _dear Lord, how close was that beast?_  
The ice cracks somewhere to his left- a sound that should be familiar by now, just as the creaking wooden floor of a well lived-in house if it wasn't screaming under the footsteps of an actual demon. Hartnell shouts something he can't make out and he then comes to his senses, realizing his instincts took over and made him run toward the ship, following the sounds of the crew’s relieved cheers and last gunshots.  
Once they climb up on board, panting, Edward is all smiles and laughter, clapping on Morfin’s shoulder, embracing the Marines and John feels terribly sick. The nausea chokes him so tightly he’s hardly able to form words:  
“Edward. You’re hurt – “  
Little’s smile falters for a second as he pats on his body, confused.  
“Where?”  
“Your head”, John clarifies, _it was so close_.  
Edward touches his forehead and winces a little.  
“Oh well! That’ll make a nice battle scar!”  
The crowd around them laugh heartily and John is pretty sure he’s about to _vomit_. He catches Edward’s arm in an iron grip and pulls him toward the ladder, muttering nonsense about how he needs to see Doctor Stanley now, as wounds heal badly in this terrible weather.  
Edward follows him obediently, but laughs once again when they reach the sick bay only to find it empty – a note on the table saying the doctor and his assistant are doing an inspection in the orlop.  
“Really John, it isn’t necessary, it’s a mere scratch. Morfin sprained his ankle and I stumbled trying to get him up, hit my head on a bit of ice. It was rather silly, I must say.”  
“Silly?” spits John in between clenched teeth, his heart right to his lips.  
“Why yes, comical – it was like an act in a circus-“  
John finally snaps:  
“Edward, for the love of God! You stumbled on the ice while that... that thing was chasing you! You could have died because of that fall! I could have – we could have lost you.”  
He feels tears rushing to his eyes; he knows his emotions are embarrassingly readable, always have been, his heart suspended like a crucifix over the altar, offered for all to see. _Crying again?_ his father would say, _but John, there is enough salt in the sea already!_ But right now, he’s grateful for that weakness, for he desperately needs Edward to understand his anguish.  
“John“, he says calmly, a searching look in his eyes. Irving puts a hand on his mouth to stifle a sob – self-conscious in front of his fellow officer’s composed figure.  
“Edward, I’m sorry- “  
It’s Edward’s turn to take him by the crook of his arm and to guide them toward his cabin.

 

  
Once there, the door slid shut, Edward clumsily takes off his gloves and cap, and picks up two handkerchiefs – one for John’s tears, and the other to wipe the blood still oozing from his face. John tries to focus on the Biblical symbolism of these two liquids – but he can only think of the Lady of the Seven Sorrows, Mary crying in front of the Christ crucified, and that’s not helping.  
Edward makes him sit on his bunk, and joins him a moment later , their knees pressing together.  
“Are you feeling better, John?” he says, his eyes soft and unjudging.  
John snorts.  
“Well, I wasn’t the one chased by a giant polar bear today.”  
“No“, he says with a smile, “but I gather you have much on your mind. You know you can always share your burdens with me, right John? We need to stick together; I’d be glad to help you, if you let me.”  
A million thoughts cross John’s mind as he looks into Edward’s kind and expectant eyes  
_I don’t want you to die – I want to hold your hand again – please let me hold you – let’s get out of this terrible place – would you let me kiss you I asked? – I simply want to feel your warmth – do you know how incredible you are?_  
That last thought stays on the tip on his tongue.  
“You’re loved”, he suddenly blurts out.  
Edward looks confused, and honestly, so is John for a second.  
“What I mean – what I meant to say is – you are kind, and skilled, and a good leader – the men love you – you rescued Morfin when a lesser man would have run for his life. The Captain relies on you, you’re like a son to him, and all the officers of the wardroom look up to you. And what I mean is, you’d be missed. If you… if you were to die. You’d be awfully missed”. John takes a deep breath, and wipes new tears that have fallen down his cheeks. “So please, _please_ be careful.”  
While he talked, John’s eyes were flying all around the room, from his hands twisting the handkerchief to the tiny wound with its blood already dried up to the books on Edward’s bedside, surprised to see an open Bible there – but he has to look up after a few seconds of silence pass.  
The look on Edward’s face is unreadable – a mix of joy and confusion – which turns into something softer and more dangerous for Irving’s heart.  
“And you, John? Would you miss me?”  
_Do you love me?_ John hears in the confines of his soul. _Yes. I would never be the same. I would walk on the ice this second to fight that damn beast myself if it had taken you away._  
John stops breathing and answers.  
“Yes. Terribly so. I- “  
Edward covers his hands with his own – something blooming behind his eyes.  
“ _Please don’t leave me alone_ ” John whispers and it’s silly, Edward is only one man amongst the hundred this expedition brought to the end of the world, only one amongst the millions the British Empire houses – but Edward seems to understand as he cups John’s cheek in one hand, still cold from the outing, rough and calloused ; the most wonderful thing he ever felt.  
“John”, and the way he says his name is already too much, ragged and raw like a last sigh, “I won’t. Not if I still have a breath in my body – I won’t leave you. You talk about how I would be missed, but do you have any idea how precious you are? John, you are kind, and human, and...” Edward’s voice breaks a little. “I'm not an eloquent man, I wish I could say this better but... you keep me afloat, John. I’m prone to despair, my mind wanders, but you... anchor me. Give me reasons to hope”.  
John's breath is short, blood rushing to his cheeks and shivers making his spine tremble and the whole thing feels like a dream – like one of his fantasies, except this isn’t happening in the safety of an Essex cottage. This is real, and dangerous, and any time someone could open the thin door that barely hides them from the rest of the men, and they would see them – Edward and him, so undeniably close, the love clear in their tearful eyes. John never wants it to stop – he wants more of this reality, as much as he can get. He doesn’t think he’s ever done anything as brave as what he is doing now, as he reaches softly, slowly, for Edward’s jaw to bring him closer still, and swiftly looks in his eyes before putting his lips on his.

 

  
It's hardly blasphemous to say they feel like Heaven, Edward's lips, chapped and still slightly cold, but so absolutely real. Edward’s hand on his cheek move into his hair as he turns his head a bit to press further, and John can’t stop his left hand from clutching on Edward’s shoulder, holding onto him like a line thrown to a man overboard.  
When they part to breathe, Edward holds John’s face close to his, their noses brushing, his thumbs caressing his cheeks almost reverently. John opens his mouth to speak, maybe an excuse or a warning – discretion is useless, intimacy is impossible – but is silenced in the most delightful way as Edward kisses him again, his lips warm at last with their shared heat.  
Edward peppers kisses on his lips, on his cheek, up the side of his face and John feels like he could cry again – of joy this time.  
Thank you my Lord, he thinks as he buries his head in the crook of Edward’s neck as they embrace each other, trying to get as close as they possibly can.  
They both can hear the noise of the men going down off the deck, the casual shouts and steps of calm returning after the storm – they both know they will be soon needed to appease the turmoil , to set things back in order as officers are bound to do. But for now they hold each other close and tight, enjoying the wave that engulfs them, their world turned upside down . Loving words spoken in between kisses and kisses interrupted by smiles. Fear and order can wait until the tidal wave of their love recedes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic :)


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